Poems for Children and Poems about Children
These are poems for children and poems about children and their mothers, fathers, grandmother, grandfathers and extended families.
The Desk
by Michael R. Burch
for Jeremy
There is a child I used to know
who sat, perhaps, at this same desk
where you sit now, and made a mess
of things sometimes.I wonder how
he learned at all...
My Mother's history
The Poet will publish my poem, “My Mother’s History” in an upcoming anthology on Cultural Identity. My ethnic background is a bit complicated. Depending upon how I look at it, I have 18 to 20 nationalities in my tangled family DNA.
The Celtic Cross at Isle Grosse
The Celtic Cross at Île Grosse
by Michael R. Burch
“I actually visited the island and walked across those mass graves [of 30,000 Irish men, women and children], and I played a little tune on me whistle. I found it very peaceful, and there was relief there.” – Paddy Maloney of The Chieftains
There was relief there,
and release,
on Île Grosse
in the spreading gorse
and the cry of the wild geese . . .
Poems for Fathers and Grandfathers
These are poems for fathers and grandfathers, written by Michael R. Burch.
Sunset
by Michael R. Burch
This poem is dedicated to my grandfather, George Edwin Hurt Sr.
Between the prophecies of morning
and twilight’s revelations of wonder,
the sky is ripped asunder.
The moon lurks in the clouds,
waiting, as if to plunder
the dusk of its lilac iridescence,
and in the bright-tentacled sunset
we imagine a presence
full of the fury of lost innocence.
My"Mom" is my"Heaven" on Earth
God forbid if something terrible happens and I lose my eyesight.
I would miss the smile on my mother's face shining with glow and always bright.
My brothers would have tears in their eyes seeing me like this,
and would never indulge in a friendly fight.
My world would be in darkness though there would be light.
I won't be able to take lonely walks on the streets, would require help by plight.
On leaving Ireland 1969
Time is going quickly..
soon we'll have to part
from families, friends and neighbours
the thought near breaks my heart.
Landing on a foreign soil
English soil at that!
I wonder will it be like home
with a welcome on the mat?
People say, "It will be a change
you'll like it, wait and see,
London is terrific,
that's the place to be.
It will be a change indeed
to live near London town
Fashion! Frenzy! Fighting!
Travel underground!
Flowing Child
Desert sounds night sky down
trimming pinks purples and blues
searching for flowing child blonde hair with curls
all tangled up wants her gram
Running away from her mom and dad
her baby sister left with them
Flowing Child seeks the way to find her gram
leaving no trail when moving at night
This path is very hard for her to travel
she knows if Gram is called
Gram will find her.
Her mom is going around frantic where is she
My flowing child?
Tranquillity
Oh if it were not for my wife
And family increase,
How gladly would I close my life
In monastery peace!
A sweet and scented isle I know
Where monks in muteness dwell,
And there in sereness I would go
And seek a cell.
On milk and oaten meal I'd live,
With carrot, kail and cheese;
The greens that tiny gardens give,
The bounty of the bees.
Then war might rage, I would not know,
Or knowing would not care:
No echo of a world of woe
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True Love
In silence the heart raves.It utters words
Meaningless, that never had
A meaning.I was ten, skinny, red-headed,
Freckled.In a big black Buick,
Driven by a big grown boy, with a necktie, she sat
In front of the drugstore, sipping something
Through a straw. There is nothing like
Beauty. It stops your heart.It
Thickens your blood.It stops your breath.It
Makes you feel dirty.You need a hot bath.
I leaned against a telephone pole, and watched.
I thought I would die if she saw me.
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To The Memory Of My Beloved, The Author, Mr William Shakespeare, And What He Hath Left Us
To draw no envy, Shakespeare, on thy name
Am I thus ample to thy book and fame;
While I confess thy writings to be such
As neither Man nor Muse can praise too much.
'Tis true, and all men's suffrage. But these ways
Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise;
For silliest ignorance on these may light,
Which when it sounds at best but echoes right;
Or blind affection, which doth ne'er advance
The truth, but gropes, and urges all by chance;
Or crafty malice might pretend this praise,
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